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AMbrOSE

Ambrose wandered the frozen river market in Honeywood Haven at his usual time in his usual way. His oiled goatskin bag bumped lightly against his hip with each step, his spiked shoes providing a small amount of traction on the deeply frozen river ice.

Each oak-framed house and shop he passed had a thick, double layer of packed snow covering it from top to bottom to insulate it, and it gave the village an almost ethereal glow. Each building looked like a little orb, and all together they were like pearls on a string, arranged around a giant’s neck. Thanks to the insulating nature of snow, the homes inside were warmed to sixty degrees with body heat alone. While still chilly enough to warrant a constant layer of clothing, it was far from unbearable in a frozen kingdom. He’d lived in worse during his travels. Much worse. To be completely fair, he’d also lived in better, but Honeywood Haven felt like home.

Like everyone else who had spent at least forty-eight hours in the kingdom of Frostvale, he had heard about the night of warmth, and like everyone else, he had simply adjusted to the reality of the cold. The river had been frozen solid for exactly one hundred years, and magic had been gone just as long. Rumors swirled like snow eddies across the ice about the time before, a time of pixies and unicorns and even wyverns. About blue skies and blue flowers.

About magic.

No one actually believed the stories of old. That mushrooms dotted mossy logs on the forest floor or that little fire bugs lit up warm, summer nights, or that wildflowers attracted pixies while trolls slumbered under bridges.

But then, for one night, exactly twenty-seven years ago, magic had returned. For one night, warmth suffused the village, and people started to wonder if the rumors held some truth. That Frostvale hadn’t always been encased in ice, a barely-living sculpture. That magic might have existed and could possibly exist again.

Ambrose had heard how everyone looked at each other with bright eyes full of hope. And when the magic was gone the next morning, the people who had stayed up all night to celebrate looked at each other aghast. He knew exactly what that felt like, too.

Despair.

For the last twenty-seven years, Frostvale had lived in a mixture of hope and despair, praying in secret to the old gods to return another night of warmth, an infinite number of nights of warmth! But remembering to respect the new gods of cold since that was the reality of things, and to always remind oneself that the cold does not claim us.

But now there was something as powerful as hope or despair; there was gossip.

Ambrose first heard it in the stalls between Lorcan the fur dealer and Duskborne the mulled wine expert. They had their heads together, a not uncommon sight, but Duskborne had handed Lorcan a mug of his pomegranate mulled wine and he hadn’t even haggled. He simply handed it over and rubbed his gloved hands together, leaning in close to whisper, “Did you hear?”

That got Ambrose’s attention. He inched over, taking care to not be noticed. The statue in the center of the square was encased in a thick layer of ice, a perpetual woman with her arm outstretched, catching something. Something unknown. Ambrose liked to think she was capturing the long lost sunlight. He leaned against the statue, keeping his head down.

“About the queen?” Lorcan asked, smacking his lips.

“No, she’s gone to the castle. Whatever she thinks she’s going to accomplish… pah. Always had her head in the gray clouds, that one. Out of my hands. No, I mean did you hear about the spontaneous seedlings?”

“What? Come in, come in, Duskborne. No, I most certainly did not. What were they? Where were they? By chance, you don’t have any more of this delicious mulled wine, do you?”

“Delicious, did you say? How kind…”

The two men slipped into the wooden stall packed with snow and pulled the furs shut over the entrance. Ambrose stood outside, stunned. The mere possibility of magic had turned their rivalry into… that?

The deep, unfathomable blue color of the river ice beneath his feet felt as unchanging and unyielding as a stone mountain. Everything they had created was born of a struggle. The food that nourished their village came from meager trade deals, ice fishing, and deep earth farming—a dangerous and dark task that took nearly as many lives as it nourished. Mostly, they relied on ice fishing, stringy, imported meat, and the hardier plants that survived deep under the earth. But seedlings? Where? And how?

The two girls rumored to have pixie blood in them flitted around the statue, jumping in the air mid-stride. They danced and twirled, mesmerizing anyone who got within eyeshot. The closest one tugged on his long jacket. “Half a groat, half a groat, and moonlight to light your way.” She held an empty vial between her gloved fingertips, her pixie-like ears and blonde bobbed hair sticking out from under her wool cap.

“No thank you,” he said, but threw them a full groat anyway. It was gone beneath their gowns in an instant, and he wondered, not for the first time, if there was truth to that rumor as well.

He heard his name, “Ambrose! Join us!” and mentally reprimanded himself. As soon as he was spotted, villagers turned from their daily shopping and crowded him instead. Some wanted to touch his cloak, others asked after his shop, but most wanted to hear his thoughts on the new queen.

The villagers didn’t know his secret, but they felt drawn to him anyway, moths to his candle flame. As many times as Ambrose tried to downplay it, the heat of his candles drew them closer, bound them tighter. They were quickly making him into something he didn’t want to be. Someone important. Someone to be consulted. Someone in the spotlight.

As far as they knew, he was just an itinerant candle maker with a dream to visit all seven kingdoms. He’d never been to Honeywood Haven before, having only just arrived six weeks past. He wanted to keep it that way.

Of course, he could never deny a cold child or hungry family one of his candles. He merely slipped it in with their usual order of household tapers, and let the candle call to them when they needed it most. He couldn’t begin to explain how he knew what each person needed or how to tailor the magic just so, only that he knew when the time came what was best. He could only pray that they wouldn’t get suspicious and demand more candles than he could give or worse–be so frightened of him to run him out of Honeywood Haven for good.

Their questions flew at him faster than he could bat them away.

“What do you think?”

“Are the rumors true?”

“Did you see the seedlings yourself or is Duskborne playing us the fool to buy more of his ridiculously overpriced wine?”

“Has she come to see you yet?”

That last question came from his best friend Noll who ran the local tavern and inn, the Dancing Snowflake. He had his own oiled goatskin bag across his hip, filled with bread from the bakery. The baguettes had already frozen solid in the few steps from the bakery to the front of the Dancing Snowflake, and would need to be defrosted before he could serve them with the nightly pottage.

Ambrose shook his head. “If she needs candles for her fancy new castle, I’m sure she’ll have plenty of servants to do her bidding.”

Noll pursed his lips and nodded. “Maybe she doesn’t hear the same rumors up there in her ‘fancy castle’ that we do down here. If she did, she’d be clamoring for your special candles like the rest of us.”

“I don’t know what you mean. They are but simple candles, perfumed a bit, but nothing more.”

“Perhaps, but I swear to the old god of warmth Solnara that the last candle you gave me literally made me feel… euphoric. Like I was six and ice fishing for the first time with my dad. I could almost taste the ground acorn flour cakes my mother had packed for our lunch that day and the barley ale. It was also my first real swig of ale. I’ll never forget it. My dad clapped me on the back and declared me a man.”

“A lovely memory, Noll,” Ambrose agreed.

“Oh, it was, but here’s the real thing; the hearth was dying down to embers, but I swear I was nearly sweating standing next to that candle. Can you imagine?” he asked, his voice pure amazement still, even though the memory candle had been gifted months ago, at a time when Noll had sounded down about life.

Ambrose cleared his throat, happy that Noll had such a strong reaction to his candle, but praying he didn’t want to linger on it too long–or ask too many questions. “If she’s anything like her predecessors, she’ll hear the same rumors—and more,” Ambrose said. “I’m sure she’s gathering her spies right now.”

That got Noll back on track. The large innkeeper began walking back to the Dancing Snowflake. “I’m guessing you don’t have high hopes for our wee queen. Even though she was raised in Honeywood Haven as one of us?”

“And moved right back to the castle the moment she could,” Ambrose retorted.

“Aye, but she went with more of those high hopes of hers. Haven’t you heard all the grand plans? The maids can’t stop talking about it. Warming centers, thermal gardens, the works. We might not need so many of your miraculous candles with the queen in charge.” Noll elbowed him in the ribs. “Is that why you’re saltier than a cod fritter? You’re afraid she’ll put you out of business?”

Noll opened the door to the inn and ushered him inside. Ambrose paused, the inn-house troubadour’s notes drifting on the still air. It was a mournful song meant for a mournful day, and it didn’t quite seem to fit. “It sounds like you are the one with the high hopes, friend. When did you become the queen’s biggest supporter? Wasn’t it you, a mere six weeks ago, telling me to keep my precious thoughts about politics to myself? That a smart man was a silent man?”

“Aye, well, that was before I knew ya. And Bessa, I’ve known her since she was a wee thing and her parents longer. Her adoptive parents, I guess. Whew, that’s going to take some getting used to. Who would have imagined the fiery red-headed hellion in pigtails who used to get lost following crows into the woods was actually born a princess and is now our sovereign queen?” Noll shook his head in wonder, running a hand through his thinning hair, but he had a grin plastered to his face. “Imagine. Our Bessa. On the back of a unicorn on the night of warmth. Maybe she has some of that prophecy magic, too. Maybe that’s why she never got truly lost in those woods. Or frostbitten.”

“What are you suggesting, Noll?”

“I’m suggesting that things might actually change around here. Honeywood Haven might be something big. I might have to reopen some of the rooms at the inn.” He made a noise of amazement in the back of his throat. “A unicorn. Can you believe it?”

Ambrose resisted the urge to scowl. The last thing he wanted to do was alienate his closest friend, but honestly. A monarch that cared about change? Power corrupted. Absolute power corrupted absolutely. She might be their Bessa for now, but give her time. Give anyone a bit of power and a little time.

“You go on. I actually have some work to attend to,” Ambrose said in a light manner, declining the open door.

“Aye, of course you do. Being grumpy is a full-time job,” Noll said, stomping off as much snow as he could before walking inside the Dancing Snowflake. It was alarming, since when Noll stomped, icicles had a tendency to detach themselves at high rates of speed and shatter on the ground. He was rumored to have come from a long line of giants.

“You could have warned me,” Ambrose called.

Noll waggled his fingers through the fogged window and turned away, a grin spread from ear to ear. “The cold does not claim us.”

“The cold does not claim us,” Ambrose said back, repeating the traditional Frostvalen goodbye. He shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips as well, and continued his walk to the woods.

Due to the delicate nature of his creations, he had to forage daily, feeling for the special heartbeat of magical objects left frozen in the tundra and deep woods from centuries past. Wyvern scales, shed like snake skin. Phoenix feathers, dropped during immolation. Unicorn horn shavings, rubbed off during molting on thick tree bark. He also needed to check on his bees and make sure they were warm enough to produce honey. The previous chandler used tallow for his candles, but Ambrose hated the smell and anyway, animal fat wasn’t conducive for magic. Beeswax, freely given, was the best choice.

Twenty minutes later, he arrived at his best kept secret and bent down to his wards, muttering their magic words, Primus. Secundus. Tertius. Quartus. Nox.

With quiet murmurings, Ambrose approached his bee hives, throwing off woolen layers as he went. He’d found the deep vibrations of songs emanating from his chest, typically the lyrics his mother had sung to him as a child, worked as well as any other distraction at keeping the bees calm, perhaps better.

Even at a distance, he could hear the buzzing of a productive hive. The thin stream of bees going in and out of the wooden logs and wicker hives was a welcome sight. Ambrose had let most of the fallen logs defrost, and the bees had eagerly formed their own, wild and natural hive within the wooden cavities. He’d situated a few other queen bees in conical wicker baskets that he’d hung from low branches of apple trees waiting to blossom. Now, they were clustered among a copse of hawthorn trees situated over a thermal draft. It hadn’t taken Ambrose long to set up the hives, but it had taken a fair amount of time for him to plant the nectar-filled flowers for them to drink and to identify the place where they received enough light and warmth from the thermal vent. It was only recently he’d felt confident enough to leave the apiary for a few days at a time and not come back to frozen or scorched flowers.

Coming to his haven instantly melted the tension from his body. Ambrose felt his shoulders drop, and his cheeks relax as he unclenched his jaw. He took off his gloves and let his fingers run through the knot of purpletop vervain and grape hyacinth flowers, so bright and vibrant against a white backdrop. He especially loved the clusters of lungwort flowers that hung heavily from their stems and the fragrance of the lavender. He couldn’t think of a better way to spend his afternoon than surrounded by flowers while feeling the gentle vibrations of bees buzzing against his skin. It nearly felt illegal. Maybe it should be illegal in Frostvale.

Guilt crept into his peaceful relaxation, knowing the whole town had never seen a flower, let alone spent hours in a flower’s presence, feeling their soft petals and breathing their perfumed air. At least, not since the night of the warmth when grains dormant in the earth for decades sniffed the air for the first time and their tiny shoots and soft petals reached through cracks in the ice along the bank for one glorious night.

His guilt gnawed at him, pushing him to open his world to the rest of the village, but wouldn’t that invite trouble? Honeywood Haven was one thing, but Frostvale was made up of many more villages, all ringing the bottom of the mountain where the new queen’s castle sat. It would only be a matter of time before word got out, passing from village to village, until eventually even the queen knew about his garden. It could destroy everything, and Ambrose wasn’t ready to move on. Yes, Frostvale was a tough, icy world, but he couldn’t find it in himself to leave.

Not yet. He had unfinished business here.